Standoff in Santa Fe (4 page)

Clint was half expecting gunmen to come bursting into the room at some point, but eventually he started to believe that Alicia had brought him to her room to do just what they were doing, and for no other reason.

Alicia had little in the way of inhibitions. She allowed Clint to do anything he wanted to her, and then came up with some interesting ideas of her own. Finally, she got him on his back and took his cock deep into her mouth. She sucked him avidly and wetly, bringing him to the brink of finishing, and then stopping. In the end she climbed on top of him, took him inside, and began to ride him. She was a burning cauldron, inside and out, easily the hottest woman he'd ever been with. As she reached her own zenith, her skin seemed to burn him, and his penis felt like it was in an oven—a wonderful, glorious, silk oven . . .

*   *   *

Later they lay side by side, both panting, trying to catch their breath. He reached out to make sure his gun was still within reach.

“Did you really think I brought you up here to have you killed?” she asked.

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

She stood up and walked across the room, totally comfortable in her nudity. He watched the muscles beneath her buttocks bunch and release as she walked. When she reached the dresser, she opened it, came out with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

She brought them back to the bed and poured two glasses, handing him one.

“The champagne is all gone.”

“This'll do,” he said.

They drank and she poured another two fingers into each glass.

“What's your boss planning?” he asked.

“My boss?” she repeated. “I don't have a boss.”

“Oh, right,” he said. “Your partner. What's he got on his mind?”

“What he's always got on his mind—makin' money.”

“Is that what you have on your mind?”

“Usually,” she said. “At least it was until you walked into the place.”

“That's very flattering.”

“It's true,” she said. “None of the local men stir me the way you do. Plus soon you'll be gone. It's perfect.”

“That's not an attitude a lot of women have,” he said. “Most women are looking for a man permanently.”

“That's because they want to be taken care of,” she said.

“Don't you want to be taken care of?”

She took hold of his penis and said, “In some ways—but not when it comes to money. I prefer to make my own money and pay my own way.”

“Well,” he said as she lowered her head into his lap, “you'll get no complaints from me.”

*   *   *

Clint left Alicia's room after a few hours, weak in the legs and in need of a beer. He didn't know what had made his head spin more, her or the whiskey she was giving him. A beer usually settled him down.

He took a moment to look down at the saloon floor from the railing. It didn't look as if Heck Thomas, Luke Short, Bat Masterson, or Bass Reeves had returned yet.

While he was standing there, a door opened and Conlon stepped out. He joined Clint at the rail.

“Looks like you're doin' good business,” Clint said.

“We usually do a good business.”

“Oh, so then this wake isn't a way of bringing in more money?”

“I'm not a fool, Mr. Adams,” Conlon said. “I know this wake will make me money, but I don't need it to save my place or anything. My business is quite secure.”

“Then why not put the body out tonight?”

Conlon turned to face Clint.

“I know you think I'm holding the body back for some reason,” he said, “but the fact is, the undertaker just doesn't have him ready yet. It's nothing I understand. But he assures me the body will be ready for viewing tomorrow.”

“I see.”

“Maybe you can pass that message on to your friends,” Conlon said, “or anybody else who's curious.”

“I'll do that,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

Conlon nodded. Clint walked past him to the stairs and descended to the saloon floor. He made his way through the crowd and found a place at the bar.

Right next to Killin' Jim Miller.

Miller had been drinking whiskey the whole time, and was quite drunk. Surprisingly, he was not belligerent at all.

“Ain't you Clint Adams?” he asked.

“That's right.”

“Hey, lemme buy you a drink,” Miller said. “What'll ya have?”

“A beer.”

“Hey, bartender!” Miller snapped. “Bring my friend a beer.”

“Right away, sir,” the young bartender said.

“I got him trained,” Miller said.

“I can see that.”

The bartender brought the beer and hurried down the bar to serve someone else—or to get away from Jim Miller.

“So tell me,” Miller said, “how well did you know the dearly departed?”

“Well enough, I guess,” Clint said. “We met twenty years ago.”

“So are you here like most of us, to make sure the bastard's really dead?”

“I'm here to pay my respects,” Clint said. “Unlike most of the people here, I don't think I had any reasons to hate him, or want him dead.”

“That's interestin',” Miller said. “So tell me, you think you coulda taken him? Face-to-face on the street? I mean, you're pretty fast.”

“Let's just say I'm glad I never had to find out,” Clint said.

“Yeah, well, I woulda liked to find out,” Miller said. “I like to try myself against the best.”

“Well,” Clint said, “I think you'll pretty much have your pick here, Miller. Thanks for the beer.”

“Anytime,” Miller said.

Clint wondered how many of the others were like Miller. Were they here to try their luck?

Clint moved away from Miller before the man could decide to try his luck right there and then. By doing so, he came face-to-face with John Wesley Hardin.

“Hello, Clint,” Hardin said.

“Wes.”

“What was on Miller's mind?”

Clint raised his mug and said, “He just wanted to buy me a drink.”

“Yeah,” Hardin said, “I think he's tryin' to decide which of us to try first.”

“Is that what you're doin'?” I asked. “Looking to try your luck against someone?”

“Not necessarily,” Hardin said. “But I wouldn't back away either. Where are your friends? Thomas? Reeves? And Bat Masterson?”

“They went to get something to eat.”

“I see that Mexican kid, Elfego Baca, over there. Anybody else in town?”

“I haven't seen anybody else yet,” Clint said. “Not so far anyway. But with the wake being put off—”

“What? Put off?”

“Yeah,” I said, “the owner of this saloon is a guy named Conlon. He says the body isn't ready to be seen yet. At least, he claims that's what the undertaker told him.”

“So when will it be ready?”

“Probably tomorrow.”

Hardin shook his head. “There's lots of itchy trigger fingers around here, Clint. I wonder if we'll make it without somebody gettin' killed.”

“I don't know, Wes,” Clint said. “I guess we'll just have to wait and see.”

“And speakin' of itchy trigger fingers . . .” Hardin said, looking toward the batwing doors.

“Clay Allison,” Clint said.

“This should be interestin',” Hardin said. “You hear the story about him and Bat Masterson?”

“Never happened,” Clint said.

“Is that a fact? Masterson didn't make Allison back down?” Hardin asked.

“No,” Clint said, “and the story went that Earp and Bat Masterson made him back down. But I don't think anybody ever made Clay Allison back down, do you?”

“Probably not.”

“Besides,” Clint said, “I heard he's ranching and has a wife and child these days.”

“I've known lots of men who tried to put down the gun and ranch, or farm,” Hardin said. “It never works. And look at him. He's wearing his gun.”

“Ranchers wear guns,” Clint pointed out.

“Well,” Hardin said, putting his empty mug on the bar, “I'm gonna get me a hotel room, if the wake isn't gonna be until tomorrow. See you then.”

“Stay out of trouble,” Clint said.

“I always try to stay out of trouble,” Hardin said, “no matter what stories you've heard.”

Hardin was referring to the story that had gone around that he'd shot a man in the next room because he was snoring. Clint had never believed it, but he didn't know Wes Hardin well enough to say for sure.

Hardin left the saloon as Allison presented himself at the bar for a beer. The number of guns in town was now at a dangerous level, with almost an equal number on both sides of the law.

*   *   *

Clint was at the bar when Bat Masterson returned. Clint waved to the bartender for another beer as his friend approached him.

“Here you go,” Clint said, handing Bat the beer.

“Thanks.”

“What happened to Bass and Heck?”

“Both went to their rooms,” Masterson said.

“And Luke?”

“Found a poker game in another saloon.”

“And not you?”

“I don't want to sit at a table with Luke,” Bat said. “It would demoralize him.”

Clint knew what good friends the two men were, and probably equals at the poker table. Certainly they were both better poker players than he was.

“I see Clay Allison has arrived,” Bat said. “What happened to Miller and Hardin?”

“Went to find rooms.”

“This town,” Bat said, “and this saloon are powder kegs with all these guns here.”

“And with the wake being put off until tomorrow,” Clint said, “there's time for more to arrive.”

“No wonder I haven't seen the local lawman on the street,” Bat said. “I bet he's in hiding.”

“Can't say I blame him,” Clint said. “I'd hate to have to get between some of these guys.”

“I'm thinkin' maybe you, me, Luke, Heck, and probably Bass should all be watchin' each other's backs while we're here.”

“We can travel at least in twos,” Clint agreed. “If Jim Miller keeps drinking, he's going to be looking for trouble.”

“And he may find it from Hardin. Or Allison,” Bat said.

“Somebody asked me about you and Allison,” Clint said.

“Never happened,” Bat said. “If it had, I can't see Allison backing down from anybody, so one of us wouldn't be here right now.”

“That's what I thought.”

“Speaking of Allison and Tombstone,” Bat said, “I wonder if Wyatt will be comin'.”

“Last I heard, he was in San Francisco, refereeing some big fights.”

“I know,” Bat said. “He's also been talkin' about maybe goin' to Alaska.”

“Probably won't be here, then.”

“That's not bad news,” Bat said. “Kinda short-tempered since Tombstone.”

“Who can blame him?”

“You gonna be stickin' around here?” Bat asked.

“Nothing else to do,” Clint said. “I just finished the Twain book I was reading.”

“I think I'll find a game,” Bat said. “Watch my back, will you?”

“You got it,” Clint said.

It didn't take long for Bat to find a chair, and then he was engrossed in a draw poker game. Clint ordered another beer and settled down to keep an eye on his friend's back.

Before long, Bat Masterson had a stack of chips in front of him. Clint could see that it had also come to the attention of some other men in the place. He didn't recognize them as anyone who might be there for the wake. He thought they were just there looking for trouble.

They were young, in their late twenties, and had been drinking a lot. Now they were nudging each other and pointing over toward the table Masterson was at.

Clint grabbed a saloon girl who was going by at that moment.

“Excuse me, what's your name?”

The woman was young, blond, and pretty.

“My name's Karen. What can I do for you, handsome?” she asked, blinking her big blue eyes at him.

“I'd like you to take three beers over to that table,” he said, pointing.

“You're buyin' them a drink?”

“Do you know them?”

“I do,” she said. “They can get good and drunk all on their own, believe me.”

“Well, bring them the beers anyway.”

“Do you want me to tell them the drinks are from you?”

“No,” he said, “I'll take care of that myself.”

“Well, okay.”

She went to the bartender, got three mugs of beer, and brought them over to the three young men. Two of them tried to grope her, but she avoided them as if she'd had great practice doing it.

She walked by Clint and said, “There ya go.”

He put some money on her tray and said, “Thank you, Karen.”

She shrugged and moved on.

Clint picked up his own beer and went to join the three men.

“Mind if I sit down?” he asked, then sat without waiting for an answer.

“What do you want, mister?” one of them asked.

“You're crashing a private party, friend,” another one said.

“Really?” Clint asked. “I thought seeing as how I supplied the drinks, maybe I was invited.”

“You bought the beers?” the third man asked.

“That's right,” Clint said. “You mind if I ask, are you boys from town?”

“That's right,” the first one said.

“We work around here,” the second one said. “So?”

“What are your names?”

None of them answered.

“Hey,” he said, “you're drinking my beer, I should at least know your names.”

“Sam,” the first one said.

“Ted,” the second man said.

“My name's Al,” the third said. “So what's your name, mister?”

“My name's Clint Adams.”

The three men stared at him.

“The Gunsmith?” Sam asked.

“That's right.”

“W-What are you doin' here?” Ted asked. “With us?”

“Well,” Clint said, “I noticed the three of you looking over at my friend, at that poker table.”

“Your friend?”

“Yes,” Clint said, “the one with all the chips in front of him? I had the feeling you were getting the wrong idea.”

“What idea?” Al asked.

“Like maybe trying to relieve him of his money?”

The three young men exchanged glances nervously.

“You should all know,” Clint said, “who that is you're thinking about robbing.”

“Whataya mean?” Sam asked. “He's a tinhorn gambler.”

“A tinhorn gambler named Bat Masterson,” Clint said.

Their eyes widened.

“Yes. If you had been foolish enough to try to rob him, you would have ended up dead,” Clint told them. “So drink up and be happy I came over to warn you.”

They all picked up their beers and drank.